First Steps
by silriven
Summary: The Tavern in the Mists has thin walls. Wrathion takes it upon himself to check in on their injured guest.


Note: I gave Left and Right names because it seemed dehumanizing for Wrathion to use what are most likely their code names in private. I aged Anduin and Wrathion up for this, too. I wasn't playing Warcraft during Mists of Pandaria and tend to picture them in their early twenties during that time. I also wrote this under the assumption that Anduin and Wrathion met at least briefly sometime before the Divine Bell incident.

* * *

The summer sun burned brightly overhead and the cooling mists that were supposed to be the Tavern's namesake had long dissappated in the instance that the morning heat broke. Wrathion, the Black Prince, the last and only uncorrupted member of the Black Dragonflight, sat reading at his desk. A fine shimmer of sweat clung to his brow, causing his thick, dark curls to stick to his skin underneath his turban. He had long abandoned his heavy coat for a cool, light tunic with short sleeves and airy pants. The heavy gear that had served him in his previous travels was too cumbersome for Pandaria's summers. He tucked a strand away from his cheek for perhaps the twentieth time that hour while he sat working his way through the long scroll before him. With a sigh, he laid the parchment to rest, tilting back in his chair so that it tipped back onto the rear two legs. He ran his fingers under the brim of his turban, lifting the fabric and relishing the brief feeling of fresh air on his skin. He reached for the cup of tea sitting within arm's reach on the desktop, only to find himself staring at a lump of drying leaves at the bottom and evaporated tea rings on the inside ceramic. His throat parched, he decided that it was time to get up and take a break.

Wrathion had spent most of the morning in his study because it was the first day of their guest's physical therapy sessions. The Tavern in the Mists was difficult to find, but once a traveler had found their way to its steps, there was little privacy to be had within the thin wooden walls. Still, he and his Blacktalon associates had kept to the lower floors in an attempt to give their guest and the Pandaren Mistweaver who had arrived promptly at ten o'clock that morning as much privacy as they could. Mistweavers were a familiar sight in the Tavern. The severity of the prince's injuries would have been enough to draw the curiosity of their order, but they seemed to feel a moral obligation to help in what way they could considering how he had gotten himself into that state.

Wrathion himself knew little about human biology and even less about the healing energy the Pandaren could ease out of the air. It made him uneasy to think about mortality. The injured prince's presence was a constant reminder of how close every mortal was to ruin. Wrathion's understanding was that it was only the swift intervention of an ancient draenei prophet that had brought the prince to a state where recovery was even possible. The Prophet had spent three sleepless days and nights praying over the man's body while channeling the power of the Light. Wrathion couldn't help but balk at the amount of time it had taken to get to this point where the cast could be removed from the prince's remaining leg and work could begin to restore the strength in his muscles. The prince himself had been eager to start. It was seldom all he could talk about lately.

Wrathion made his way to the kitchen with his cup. There he found Raquel, sometimes known as his Right hand agent, preparing a tray of meat, rice, and bean cakes. Lakoa, similarly known as his Left, was lounging near the counter, chewing on a bit of jerky, a stein of strong imported Orcish beer sitting at her elbow while she read from a book of Pandaren poetry.

"Greetings, Wrathion," Raquel said, her hands not straying from the task of slicking delicate strips of raw fish. Raquel's reddish-brown hair was tied in a loose bun at the top of her head, sweaty strands sticking to the back of her neck. Lakoa, for her credit, seemed as cool as a painting. Wrathion wondered why he was surprised that someone who had grown up in the harsh deserts of Kalimdor seemed unaffected by Pandaria's summer heat.

"Is this lunch?" Wrathion asked, reaching to take a slice of sashimi from the tray.

Raquel swatted his hand with the butt of her knife.

"For us, our guest and the weaver," Raquel said. "They should be finishing up soon and I think they'll need some nourishment."

"Excellent idea," Wrathion said. "I'll make more tea for all of us, then."

Wrathion filled the cast iron kettle with fresh water from the pump outside, taking a moment to appreciate the rolling green haze of the valley below. He set the kettle on top of the stove burner and lit a fire beneath it. A bead of sweat dripped down the tip of his nose.

"One would think that a dragon would be immune to heat," he said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

"You would think," Raquel agreed. "You could also do without the turban, it can't be helping."

Wrathion scoffed. "I think not."

Raquel shrugged. Wrathion couldn't help but notice the exasperated look she exchanged with Lakoa.

"I would be insulted at the suggestion, except I have long forgiven you both for your ignorance of fashion," Wrathion said. "Besides, it makes it much easier to manage this mortal hair."

"Ignorance is not the same thing as indifference," Raquel said without missing a beat.

Lakoa finally raised her head to squint at him, her waist-length ponytail swinging over one of her bare shoulders. "What are you talking about? You barely have any hair to manage."

"Details, details," Wrathion sang, flicking his wrist in her direction.

With the food prepared and the tea steeping, Wrathion and Raquel made their way to the stairs that would take them to the second floor, where most of the inn's bedrooms were. Raquel bore the tray of food and Wrathion carried the hot kettle with a stack of empty cups. A noise made them both pause halfway up the second landing.

"What do you mean we're done for the day?" the prince's voice rang out, high and loud. "I've barely managed to do anything!"

Wrathion froze in mid-step. His red eyes swung around to meet Raquel's brown ones. She had also come to an abrupt stop.

"You've done enough," the Mistweaver spoke in a more hushed tone that was nonetheless audible from the staircase. "This was only the first day, it's to be expected since you have not used this leg in over three months."

"This is unacceptable."

The cold, uncompromising tone made the voice almost unrecognizable. Wrathion realized just then how much he had been taking the prince's unshakably calm demeanor for granted during the short time they had known each other.

"It will take weeks to get it to support any weight at this rate."

"Months, your highness," the Mistweaver corrected, gently. "Keep in mind that it now needs to do the work of two legs, too, in bearing your weight. Then there will be another adjustment period when you are strong enough for a prosthetic."

The sound Wrathion heard next made his heart skip a beat. It took him a moment to fully register the noise as sobbing. He realized Raquel was motioning for his attention. Her gestures indicated that they should that they make their way back down the stairs. Wrathion nodded and they soundlessly descended without making a creak on the familiar wooden steps.

Lakoa was engineering a makeshift air conditioner by placing a fan behind a block of ice. She raised a brow at the sight of their faces, but didn't ask any questions, instead reaching to pluck a large bite of fish from the tray. They sat in front of the fan, relishing both the cool breeze and the soothing fragrance of steam wafting from their cups green tea as they picked at the food. Wrathion ate little. His stomach felt like it had twisted itself into a knot, leaving him with no appetite. He busied himself with studying a scroll of recipes they kept in the kitchen. Cooking, of all things, was another hobby he had become mildly interested with during this stay at the Tavern as his craving for Pandaren food was becoming insatiable.

They heard the soft sound of approaching paws long before the Mistweaver herself entered the kitchen. She seemed surprised to find a human, an orc, and a black dragon staring at her with intensity.

"I'm heading off for the day," she announced, regaining some composure. Her hands twisted around the handle of her medicinal bag. "May I ask a favor?"

"Of course," Wrathion found himself saying.

"Would you have a word with him?"" she was staring directly at Wrathion. "I hear that you've been keeping him company."

Wrathion lifted his shoulders in a learned gesture of practiced indifference. "We talk. One can hardly resist having a captive audience."

The Pandaren nodded, tilting her chin back towards the stairs she had just come from. "My duties require that I return to the Temple, there are others just as in need of my care, but I would like some reassurance that there will be someone here to check on his...mood."

"I will see to it," Wrathion promised.

The Mistweaver nodded and took her leave, disappearing as quickly as she had arrived on the back of a colorful crane-shaped kite. Wrathion took two small, clear glasses etched with ornate patterns from the cabinet and made his way to the front of the tavern, where a large Pandaren sat cleaning more glassware at a bar.

"Tong, my good Pandaren," Wrathion said, bracelets jangling as he laid his elbow to rest on the edge of the thick wooden surface. "I would like to trouble you for a bottle of your strongest sake."

Tong the Mender squinted at the Black Prince, but nodded and pulled a glass bottle filled with a clear, slightly cloudy liquid out from underneath the bar.

"Don't drink it all," Tong said.

"I must ask, is this truly your _finest_ brand?" Wrathion teased.

"It's good enough for you royals," Tong grunted, and Wrathion found no reason to argue.

He carried the bottle and the two glasses upstairs to the second floor, making his way to a particular bedroom, where two grizzly Alliance guards in bulky armor sat stationary on either side of the sliding rice paper door. They eyed each other warily, but made no move to stop Wrathion from sliding the panel door open or shutting it behind him.

The room was one of the largest in the tavern, with a handsome Cherrywood bed at one end and a balcony that overlooked the Valley of the Four Winds at the other. Ornate tapestries with embroidered Pandaren prayers decorated the wooden walls. An unoccupied wheelchair sat next to a small tea table and soft lounge cushions in the corner. Afternoon sunlight spilled in through the porch door and the round windows, pooling over the smooth hardwood floors where a mat was set up with a few black cloth straps and wooden blocks. There, prince Anduin Wrynn lay on his back, wearing a plain linen tunic and pair of loose fitting trousers. One pant leg was neatly pinned around where the right limb had been amputated mid-thigh, the other pant leg rolled up above the knee. Anduin's remaining leg lay bare and outstretched across the rain poppy patterned mat, pale, laced with puckered, still-healing scars, and withered from the time it had spent atrophying in its cast.

Anduin seemed to barely have registered Wrathion's presence in the doorway, his dull blue eyes staring at the wooden ceiling. His blond hair was overgrown, spilling out around his head like a halo. Wrathion crossed the floor, clearing his throat.

"My dear prince," he announced, his voice loud and easy as he sank into a crossed-legged seating position beside the mat. "I think this calls for a celebration."

At the word _celebration_, Anduin finally turned his head. He, too, was suffering under the summer heat. His thin face was flushed and bangs lay in tight damp coils around his face.

"Celebration?" Anduin repeated.

"For completing your first day of physical therapy," Wrathion said, banging the shot glasses down on the wooden floor. He brandished the bottle of sake with a flourish, showing the label to Anduin's uninterested eyes. "May I present what may or may not be the finest bottle of sake in this tavern."

Anduin's eyelids lowered and he looked away. "You know I don't drink very often."

"Perhaps now would be a good time to start," Wrathion said as he unscrewed the cap off the bottle. The sound of the rice wine pouring filled the room. Wrathion set the bottle to rest within easy reach and picked up one of the glasses, holding it high so that the direct sun beams made the contents glow. Anduin was unimpressed and had turned his gaze back to the dusty rafters.

"To your health," Wrathion toasted.

Anduin said nothing. Wrathion tilted his head back and swallowed the contents in a single, fluid gulp. He relished the burning sensation that ran down his throat and into his chest.

"Aaahhhh," he growled, licking his lips. "That _is_ good."

He poured himself another glass. Tong would have to be content with whatever remained, when all was said and done.

"Why is the crown prince of the great Alliance so melancholy today?" Wrathion asked, feeling emboldened by the sudden wave of relaxation that took the tension out of his shoulders. "I expected to find you happy."

"Happy," Anduin's voice was touched with bitterness. "Yes, I am very happy that my muscles have atrophied to the point where I am completely helpless, unable to push a stationary block with my heel."

Anduin's voice shook and Wrathion patiently swirled the sake around in the glass with soft motion of his wrist as he waited. The golden prince blinked furiously.

"I suppose this is better than being dead," Anduin finally said.

Wrathion found his hand coming to rest on Anduin's shoulder. "Come, now, surely it's not as bad as all that."

Anduin closed his eyes, shaking his head. He seemed unaware of Wrathion's touch.

"I was so sure," he said, speaking more to the wood above their heads than to Wrathion. "I was so sure that it was the right thing to do. I felt the power of the divine flowing through me. I don't understand how it lead to this."

Another gulp and Wrathion's second glass of sake disappeared down his throat.

"Enough," Wrathion declared. "You are not a prisoner in this room, what is it that you wish to do?"

Anduin turned his head back toward the dragon, surprised. "What?"

"Show me one of these exercises," Wrathion gestured down the length of Anduin's body. "If you are up for it, let's speed up your recovery and do a little more."

Anduin shook his head. After a moment, he simply said, quietly, "I can't."

"Then we will just sit, drink, and enjoy each other's company," Wrathion said. "I've been doing quite a bit of reading about human physiology, you know."

"Oh?"

Wrathion ignored the familiar tone of boredom on the edge of the prince's voice, normally an indication that he'd had enough of their conversation and wanted it to stop.

"I have," Wrathion continued. "It's quite fascinating, seeing the progress that you've made. When they first brought you here, I was sure I'd never see you out of that bed. And here you are."

"On the floor," Anduin's voice was flat.

"On the floor," Wrathion repeated, with more enthusiasm. "Gaining weight back, learning how to hold chopsticks with Tong's nieces and nephews."

Anduin's face seemed to soften, if only a little.

"All of the texts I've found on the subject are in agreement that it is fairly uncommon for a human to come back from having nearly every bone in their body shattered," Wrathion declared. "And that while the human body possesses an incredible ability to repair itself, the time it takes to recover is somewhat proportional to the severity of the injury."

Anduin hesitated, then slid his elbows back, propping himself up. Even this took a not insignificant amount of effort, to Wrathion's displeasure. He didn't know why it pained him to see this single, lonely human struggle. He'd traveled far and seen much suffering across both Azeroth and Outland. He had thought he would be hardened to it by now.

When Anduin managed to stabilize himself upright in a seated position, he picked up the companion glass of sake waiting for him next to the mat. After eyeing its contents for a moment, he took a tentative sip. Wrathion couldn't help but laugh at the grimace on the prince's face as he swallowed, but Anduin pushed through, eventually finishing the glass.

"Can you hand me that, please," Anduin pointed to the long strip of coiled cloth lying discarded at the end of the mat.

Wrathion fetched the belt and watched as Anduin leaned over, clumsily looping it so that when he held the ends, the ball of his foot cradled in the middle crook like a sling. Anduin then leaned back, bracing the palm of his foot against the strap and struggled to move it, pushing against his own weight in his hands holding the belt taut. Anduin was sweating from the effort, but managed to flex his toes once and Wrathion saw some muscle roil beneath his shin.

Panting, Anduin dropped the straps and leaned on his hands.

"Very good, your highness," Wrathion said, his voice soft. "You'll be doing this daily?"

Anduin nodded. "As often as I can stand it. Until the muscle is stronger, then I can move onto other movements, and eventually..."

Anduin's voice trailed off into a sigh.

"What about your spells?" Wrathion suggested. "That holy light you priests use, can you channel it into your ankle to help?"

Anduin thought for a moment. Then, he raised his left hand so that it was hovering over his thigh and whispered a prayer. A familiar warm light enveloped his palm.

What happened next happened so quickly that Wrathion had no time to think, he simply reacted. Anduin's eyes rolled back and his head flopped down then around like a dead weight, unbalancing him and sending him tipping sideways. Wrathion grabbed him, pulling his torso back upright before he could fall over. Just as quickly as he had fainted, Anduin's eyes blinked open and Wrathion felt him stabilize.

"My apologies," Anduin's words sounded thick on his tongue. The color had completely drained from his face and he seemed unable to focus. Wrathion kept his hands on the other man's arm and shoulder, watching for signs that another wave would pass. "That...took...a bit more out of me than I expected."

"Let's get you back in bed, my friend," Wrathion said, instinctively rubbing a hand over the man's back. It was a gesture he realized he had learned from seeing Lakoa and Raquel tend to each other.

Anduin shook his head. The next words he spoke sounded stronger. "No, I'm fine. Please, I've spent enough time lying down."

"As you wish," Wrathion said.

"It's a beautiful day, I want to sit outside," he turned to look from the window and meet Wrathion's gaze. "Will you help me?"

"Of course."

Wrathion brought the wheelchair over and helped Anduin off the mat and into the seat, rolling his pant leg back down to his ankle. Under Anduin's instruction, he pushed the chair out onto the shaded deck. The wood beneath them radiated heat from the sun, but with the soft cross breeze it wasn't unpleasant. With Wrathion's assitance, Anduin moved from the wheelchair and into one of the tall-backed lounge chairs with his recovering leg propped up and resting on the table. The prince sighed as he sank back into the rich, colorful cushions.

"I'll get you some water," Wrathion said. "And surely you need some food."

Anduin shook his head. "No, thank you, I'm not hungry."

"Just water, then, at the very least," Wrathion insisted. "You humans can dehydrate easily in this weather, and that's without exerting yourselves."

Anduin said nothing more in objection and Wrathion started to make his way back to the kitchen. To his surprise, he found Lakoa waiting for him in the outer doorway to the prince's room, with a large glass of water and a bowl of what was left of the food that Raquel had prepared. She looked concerned, but Wrathion nodded in reassurance and thanked her as he took just the glass back out to the deck.

For all his protesting, Anduin had no trouble gulping down the entire glass in one go. His hand trembled from the effort of lifting it and Wrathion lingered, prepared to catch it if it fell. But Anduin managed and handed it over to him, their fingers brushing as Wrathion took it back.

"Thank you," Anduin said.

Wrathion nodded and started to turn. "It was my pleasure. I'll leave you to enjoy the day."

"Wait," Anduin said, suddenly. "...are you...very busy?"

Wrathion spread his hands and shrugged. "No more so than usual. I always manage to find something to keep myself occupied."

Anduin hesitated.

"Will you stay a while?" he asked, not quite meeting Wrathion's gaze. "I'd appreciate some company. Your company."

Wrathion quickly recovered from the look of surprise, the easy smile, that he let slip.

"I'd be happy to, my dear prince," Wrathion said, a more controlled smirk crossing his face. "We are celebrating, after all."

Wrathion fetched the sake from the room and poured another round, leaving Anduin's balancing within reach on the wide armrest of his chair. He let himself settle into a second chair next to Anduin's and found himself talking, again, about the scrolls he had borrowed from the Mistweavers. Within minutes, Anduin had fallen asleep. A peaceful expression was on his face, the lines of tension had loosened from his brows and he seemed free from the pain he was in for the time being. Wrathion let his voice rest and he nursed his third glass of sake, content to watch the mists roll back in under the sun and listen to the humming cicadas, waiting for his fellow prince to wake up. 


End file.
